


It’s Not Just Play, anymore

by angededesespoir



Series: JeanMarco Week [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: (but not exactly- i think jean does return marco's feelings he's just in denial about his sexuality), AU, Angst, Car Accidents, Hospitals, M/M, Serious Injuries, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Love, [at least for the purposes of this story], eren is briefly mentioned, homophobia???, side note- i see jean as bi but struggling to accept his identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 10:07:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8368279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angededesespoir/pseuds/angededesespoir
Summary: But life was not fit for fairytales, as they would soon find out.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *Jumps in last second* Oh, boy. I try to write happy and look what happens. *Wipes my tears away* Anyway, this is for Day 1- Fairytale. And this can also be read [here](http://angededesespoir.tumblr.com/post/152243335420/its-not-just-play-anymore).

When they were boys, the two would camp out in Jean’s treehouse. Jean’s mom would fill paper lunch bags with snacks, so they didn’t have to come down in the middle of the night. (As they had learned the hard way last summer when Jean fell off the ladder and broke his arm, trying to venture down in the dark wasn’t the wisest idea.)

In their haven, fireflies shone in glass jars, lighting bits and pieces of the walls where many of the boys’ (mostly Jean’s) drawings were taped. Marco would often admire Jean’s work. It seemed superior to all their classmates, so realistic-looking even when the subject matter wasn’t real at all. Yes, often they would draw scenes from fairytales. They would draw themselves in those stories of make believe.

Hidden beneath the floorboards were books full of lands they longed to visit and people they wished to be. They would read by sunlight, by moonlight, by flashlight, ‘til eyes were sore and strained. They would talk of the tales, build onto them, Jean bringing life to the images they discussed. (He would always try to get Marco to join him, but Marco prefered to watch as the drawings took on a life of their own under Jean’s careful hand. He had a hand in the process of constructing the story, and that was enough.)

In addition to drawings, they would design skits, act out their plays- ‘swordfighting’ in the backyard (courtesy of the sticks they managed to find), the old woman with poisoned berries in the park, the bird that flew into their treehouse- a viscous dragon.

All was well until they decided to put on a performance at recess. A story of rescue, of love, of devotion- a prince trying to wake another prince from a spell.

There was teasing and cries of cooties, and Jean’s face flushed red as he tried to hold back tears. The kids ran off and Marco, worried, tried to embrace him, but Jean gently pushed him away, rose, and started walking to his hiding spot near some bushes.

Marco let him go.

-

They didn’t bring up the moment. Things gradually changed. The pages stopped turning, the walls of colour began to fade, the books were hidden away and remained hidden away. Jean turned to different subject matter.

Marco tried to find something new to claim as their’s

He tried and failed and settled. He could not draw with Jean, lacking the skill that the boy possessed (though Jean insisted it did not matter- praising his work, hanging it in his room), but he became part of the process again. He became Jean’s favourite subject matter.

-

It’s 12 years later and he has not budged from the chair since he was allowed in 10 hours ago. There is silence except for the beeping of machines. The doctors say they have stabilized him. They say they are not sure if he will regain consciousness. They say that even if he does, there may be permanent damage. 

Marco is staring at monitors, blinking back tears, wondering how it came to this. He grasps Jean’s hand tenderly, squeezes.

If only he had done more to stop him. If only he had tried harder, done something sooner to sooth this feud, this rivalry between Jean and Eren. Maybe he could have stopped him- _alcohol flowing_ \- stopped him- _getting into that car_ \- stopped him- _smashing pedal down, ‘faster, faster, have to beat him!’_ \- stopped him- _**crash**_.

He traces the hand gently, a suppressed tear falling down his cheek as he gazes down at the boy before him- more vulnerable than he has been in a very long time.

He thinks back, to that day at school, all those years ago- the teasing, the embarrassment. The change, the distance that had emerged, grown (though they both would not acknowledge it) over time. That was the start. The start that they could not have seen in it's full importance, full consequence, until well after the fact. The start of the loss, of the helplessness- but he still had him. Back then, they still had eachother. But now-

Now, he was slipping through his fingers. 

The loss had begun with the admission of feelings, not taken well by Jean, who grew awkward and nervous and stripped down their conversations to hellos and small talk and _goodbyes_. The goodbyes- the hardest to bear.

He watched him slip further, throw himself headfirst in trying to win Mikasa’s affection. Failing and trying and fighting with Eren- an endless cycle. And Marco- Marco trying to bury feelings, trying to offer comfort and advice, trying to find a way to be part of Jean’s process again.

Trying not to think that the story they could not rewrite may soon come to an end.

Trying not to acknowledge that he may have to face the final loss, sooner than expected.

He thought back to that day, the beginning of the curse, played the scene out in his head, pretended that fairytales were real, instead of child’s stories buried beneath dust and rotted wood.

He gazed down at his sleeping beauty, his prince.

He leaned down, gently pressed lips to cheek.

 

The machines continued beeping. The eyes did not open.

_Sometimes love was not enough._


End file.
